The residue
by checkerboardBeast
Summary: He won t say it aloud to the crowds, but he misses the lingering bruises and scrapes and, god, that thumping at the base of his skull is just going "Either you or someone else, or someone else" And these days the pain just doesn t linger enough to actually ground him. He wants, needs, to get the ground back under his feet.
1. Question!

Residual madness, it`s called. A throbbing swirl at the base of the skull, a violent, apathetic and volatile urge that makes his fingertips twitch as he stares on, forward.(never sideways and never back. He turns fully, not just with his head.) In moments of epiphanies, he thinks it`s the residue of bone bruises and broken limbs suffered from the pure instinct of destruction, hands and knees to the floor, never looking up, waiting. (But never having to wait long)

When he stares in the mirror, he sees it in the eyes, always the eyes. And if they are a window to the soul then his soul is small white islands of white and hazy grey between an abyss with no beginning or end. Expanding. Pulsating. But trough the iris it all seems so steel blue and faded.

Sometimes Isaac catches the shifting glances of others, and he sees them _see _him. See inside him. Their eyes always widen in fractions, mouths gaping ever so slightly, their expressions just so purely _apprehensive _he has to look away, biting at his tongues and pushing his claws into his palms by increments, so as to not scream out _YOU SEE AND YOU`RE SURPRISED? AS IF THIS ISN`T TO BE EXPECTED? LOOK INTO ME AND PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE TELL ME WHY YOU`RE SURPRISED BY THIS? __**ISN`T THIS WHAT BROKEN LOOKS LIKE?**_

But then than molten, rage-full feeling of desolation fades to the base of his skull and leaves him feeling so goddamn empty. So goddamn tired.

But, if he has to be honest here, he forgets that feeling most of the time. It`s too ebbed and too much a part of him to really be noticed constantly. Like how the sound of ticking clocks disappears when you`re not focusing on it. But it comes back in those moments, along with the age-old taste of fresh blood in his mouth when he chews his tongue down.

He`s often confused by things. Supposedly simple ones (as said by the ones who aren`t him). He`s confused by physical affection, nervous from light conversation, the topics reminding of memories of masks with smiles and molten, calculative rage underneath.

He`s confused by the concept of trust.

But he learns and he watches and remembers and analyses and understands things better now, isn`t scared all the time now, learns to rely on people now (others and himself)

It feels like a change for the better, most of the time. Other times (too often) the sounds and the sights and the way his skin feels pulling itself together is just so much, too much and he hyperventilates to an almost faint. (He wishes he wouldn`t heal so fast, sluggish pain is too soothing, helps him concentrate and reminds him that _he is in control._ He needs to remember that.)

He misses the bruises, the ache of them as he moves. He realizes he`s a domestic animal that`s been set free so suddenly and has no idea how to survive. It`s been too long, he knows, too long and he`d grown too used to, too dependent on the pain to ground him and now he`s flying so high and the throbbing madness in the base of his skull is showing him off the edge, he`s not used to this, so not used to this, he needs it back, needs the sluggish sharp pain and the bone bruises that last for weeks back.

The thought starts out as a question. And over the course of a week crosses his conscious mind quite often and he can`t stop wondering if it`s possible to _slow it down._ The healing. So that the bruises would have enough time to form before they disappear. So that he could leisurely drag out contours of shapes and lines, so alike to how other people do with clouds, enough time for him to relax into the knot of pain, the sharp feeling of his very fibres screaming _do not touch there, it`s bad for you._

And he knows who`d know. (Or at least who he hopes would know)

So he walks through that white-wood transparent-glass door with the two-sided sign that says open and closed. So he sits down in the chairs meant for waiting owners of dogs and cats and birds and hamsters and any other animals that can be considered pets.

The good doctor had heard the bell, and when he comes out through the doorway, such a stark contrast against the light walls, his expression of a mild surprise. But then it softens. (Always softens, Allan is always so calm and neutral it scares Isaac in a kind of tingly-skin way)

"Hello, Isaac, how may I help?"

He`s not too sure how to answer. He`d never really thought what to do at a point so far.

"I just wanted an answer to a question."

"Oh, and what question would that be?"

Isaac inhales. Exhales. Looks down at his sneakers. At the ceiling. Exhales. (And Allan waits, he`s so patient, ever-so understanding)

"Is there some way to slow it down? The, uh, healing, I mean." (he feels like he`s tripped over the words)

Allan`s face changes. He studies Isaac, head to toe, eyes lingering on the curious expression the boy has on his frowning face. He invites Isaac inside, into the larger room with the high windows in the red brick walls. Doesn`t question the question until Isaac leans against the table in the centre of the room, languid and skittish.

(Scott`s not working today. Scott`s not there. That`s why Isaac chose now, he`d known this. He`d known he didn`t want anyone to know about what would be talked of today, either.)

"There is one way, at the least, which I know of. A kind of potion."

"Does it have any side-effects?"

"Isaac, do you really feel it`s necessary?"

And he gets it. Of course he gets it. The veterinarian reads people like books, even if he doesn`t say it aloud, but those who see the gleam in his eye can tell, can feel.

"I feel too free like this. And this residual madness, it feels like, god, it feels like if I don`t get ripped up myself, then it`s going to be someone else-" He inhales deeply. Settles his eyesight. Calms down. " I mean, at first this was great, yes, it was amazing and liberating, but the feeling of new-ness is gone and being cage-less feels more constricting than any shackles I`ve known. I need it. Need it back."

"And you know that for sure? What happens when you get what you want?"

That makes Isaac stop thinking for a moment. He freezes up, makes a kind of "uhm" sound, and Allan just watches him pick up his wits off the floor, one by one by one.

"I think it could be kind of therapeutic. Like a kind of medicine to take, until I can manage to live without it."

"Chain smokers have a better chance of stopping if they cut it all off at a single moment, but you choose to alienate yourself slowly?"

"Yes. I just- I need it. There`s too much stress right now. I`m afraid I need a little more calm to do the calming down and dropping it."

"And if a little more calm doesn`t come?"

"Then, well, I don`t know what, but I hope it does."

"I hope so too."

There`s silence for a while after that. They both immerse in a kind of calm reverie, to each a mind`s world of their own design.

They stand like that for a long while. Somewhere along the line Isaac loses track of this mind`s world he had been contemplating and becomes entranced in non-existent patterns of swirling ash on the walls, the thumping of the residential madness making him sway lightly, without his own notice.

Allan breaks out of his reverie as well, and watches the distant look in Isaac`s eyes. Hears how Isaac`s bones creak with the rocking motion. He looks like he`s in a trance.

Allan calls his name once. No response.

Calls it again, louder, the barest hint of concern in the undertone. Isaac jolts, snaps his head around, all wide eyes and surprise, then focuses back on Allan. Except he doesn`t see him as he stands, but rather a space that is shaped like the other, unreal.

"Isaac, are you still with me?"

Isaac blinks, then nods and murmurs affirmatively.

"Good. Now how about you tell me a little more about this necessary vision of yours?"

Another nod.

"Back- back before my father was killed, he used to hit me."(Allan knows but doesn`t interrupt, that`s not how these things are done)"Which was horrible, in the moments when it happened, but, when they passed, the wounds kind of became a part of me. A sense of stability that was calming on some subconscious level back then but now it has surfaced and, well."

A pause.

"I used to, uh, put pressure on the bruises when I was nervous. It helped me calm down. But now, they don`t stay, and I can`t seem to find any other ways to ground myself."

"So you`ve tried?"

"Yes, I`ve tried so much, so much."

"I see. So you`ve though this through."

"Mostly."

"And how much is mostly?"

"Almost everything, I hope."

"Anything I can help with the parts un-thought through?"

"I think so."

"What exactly?"

"Well, while I`m pretty sure it might help to not heal as fast, but, I think I`ll need some form of supervision none the less. I`m scared I`ll do something to fuck up. I… I just don`t want to end up worse than I already am."

His voice trembles, and breaks on the last sentence. He pulls up his hand to rub at his eyes. They feel sting-ish.

"I`ll help you with that then, all right?"

Isaac just nods.


	2. Sleep is blissful, but only in innocence

Allan begins to rummage through shelves then, picking up fragile glass jars with swirling and withered bits of things. Trees, Flowers, bodies and the transparent dragonfly-esque wings of insects. Some he sets back upon the dustless shelves, some he sets beside the leaning-against-the-operating-table Isaac, who not once reaches out to swirl the contents of the jars about in their confines.

He picks out about fifteen, Isaac counts, having searched through only the two cupboards furthest away from the door. Isaac guesses that those are the only ones not containing veterinarian stuff.

Then Allan closes them both, with soft clicks and Isaac hears Allan`s palms caress the wood of the small doors as he lowers them back down to his sides. Then he comes round to the table, and stands at and end of it, as if not to crowd too close. (Isaac is silently grateful for that)

Then he looks like he`s picking out words, leisurely and precisely, tasting them out on his tongue, to see if they`re the right ones.

„I have to warn you though, I`ll need something from you. Something that might cause some discomfort."

Isaac turns to face him slowly, and Allan is looking straight inside of him and their eyes interlock just as Isaac whispers

"What is it?"

"The blood of a werewolf poisoned by the berries mountain ash. "

"Oh." He swallows. "You can take mine. "

"You`ll have to eat them, and it`s going to hurt a lot while your digestive system tries to do its job and digest it."

"I`ll bear with it."

"Are you sure? You`ll be in quite a lot of pain for about six hours."

Isaac swallows (and there`s almost frustrated edge to it), then repeats that he`ll bear with it. Allan nods.

"I`ll be right back with the berries, then."

Then he walks out of the room with the high windows and red brick walls and leaves Isaac to stare at the jars by his hip and the shining steel below them. It faintly reflects the glass containers, creating a foggy world of mirrored objects.

He only has to wait for three minutes (he doesn`t count this time) and then Allan is back with a cluster of bright vermillion-orange berries. He holds it in one hand, and with the other pick apart three of the small berries. He comes closer and holds out his palm for Isaac to take them.

(Isaac takes a moment to consider the aesthetic appeal of the contrast between vermillion and the smooth brown colour of Allan`s palm.)

Then he picks them from the skin of the other.

They don`t weigh much, but where they touch his skin starts to tingle. He notices a star-shaped hole on one end of the small pearly objects.

„So I just eat these? And then you take some of my blood for the potion?"

"Yes."

Isaac hums, then twirls one of the berries in his fingertips, looking over the smooth, saturated surface of it.

(And then he thinks of wooden crosses and strange symbols and clusters upon clusters of the small red, round things falling to the floor, many of them bouncing off into angled directions and rolling over ancient dusty timbers and voices of people aghast, murmuring about the creatures of places not set by nature, all these visions of a time so much more ancient, so much more misunderstanding and spiteful)

Then he realizes time as passed him by. Allan is still staring in his face, knowing eyes alight with a curiosity he doesn`t speak of aloud. (Because who wouldn`t want to know what happens in the active minds of the silenced?)

And then Isaac tastes bitter juice, (immediately thinks how much like cranberries they taste) and he manages to move his jaw in a chewing motion a few times before the taste turns into a kind of tingling sensation, so he swallows. They leave a streak of the same tingling in his throat. Then his mouth goes dry.

He shivers and grimaces, the tingling bitterness and dryness makes him wish for some mouthwash.

And then Allan is in front of him with an empty syringe.

„The poisonous effect spreads pretty fast, so I think it`d be best if you lied down soon."

Isaac nods, then feels the tingle spread from his stomach and throat and mouth. Feels like his entire body is filling up with buzzing numbness. Allan lifts up the syringe in a warning and a silent question. Isaac rolls up one of his sleeves and holds the arm out, palm up. Then exhales, hums in affirmation.

Allan holds the arm near the elbow with one hand, then presses the needle against skin in that place in the crook between his upper arm and lower, where the slight blue-green outline of a vein can be seen. It slips into his arm, and it feels odd for that tingling buzz to be interrupted by the slightly cool metal in his tissue. But other than that, he doesn`t really feel it.

Then Allan pulls back on the plunger, and Isaac only vaguely realizes the dark red liquid that is pulled into the cylinder as his blood. It`s darker than usual, probably from the mountain ash berries seeping rapidly into his system.

There is no sensation of being drained.

Then the syringe is full and the metal leaves his arm, leaving a droplet of deep red seeping through the too-small-to-really-see wound. Isaac`s haze-tinged mind is mesmerised by the sight. Because it has grown hazy. Hazy with the tingle.

"It might not hurt yet, but it will. Soon. So I`ll give you some anaesthetic, all right? It`ll wear off quick, but at least it won`t be full pain until later."

Then Isaac kind of sees him drift on his feet to one of the cupboards, the ones not the furthest from the door, and there is glass with a liquid in his hands, and the same kind of gun-like contraption Isaac had once used to inject ketamine into Jackson.

"I think you might remember this" Allan says, as he holds up the container a bit more visibly than usual "It`s ketamine." So it is. The very same.

Allan keeps blurring in Isaacs vision. The tingle is getting loud.

"But I`m going to have to ask you a question now, all right?"

Isaac stares at him, bleary-eyed. Blinks.

"Would you be all right with me calling Derek to pick you up?"

Isaac thinks sluggishly that he probably has an expression of betrayal on his face because Allan sets one hand on his shoulder as if to placate him.

"I don`t think you`d want to stay there on the operating table or in this room for those six hours."

(It takes a moment to register. God, it`s so loud, so loud-)

"I`ll just tell Derek you accidentally poisoned yourself mildly by eating something that you didn`t know had mountain ash in it. Would that be okay?"

Isaac can`t even be bothered to realize Allan is talking to him like a child. He nods, and it sends haze through his systems. His abdominal muscles suddenly spasm involuntarily.

Then Allan is walking over to the side and has a cell phone, Isaac thinks, and he can`t really understand the words being said from so far but he doesn`t dare move because he`s sure, through mist and water and buzz of ancient insects, that if he does, then he`ll topple over from where he remembers to be leaning against the table. Another spasm.

Then the soft sound of voices ceases. The tingle turns into a sharp pressure by increments. His hands twitch. He can`t see. It`s all black. Or are his eyes closed? Then he feels something on his shoulder. Or neck? Does he even have a body? He only feels the throb at the base of his skull and small tremors somewhere.

A voice? Is it under water? Is he underwater? What`s it saying, Isaac can`t understand. Then something cold slips into his neck, he moans in displeasure, tries to scramble away? Does he even move?

Then it fades. It all does. Now it`s not just his vision that`s black.

It`s just

F a di n g .

* * *

He`s alone here, as he stands, his head enveloped in cold dry sand, and he feels glass carving at his legs. But there is none of it up here.

There`s something in his spine, he can feel it. Too sharp to be comfortable, it feels like tree branches weaving. He tries to claw at it, through the front of his chest, through layers and layers of bruised and scarred skins, through muscle and blood vessels and it`s be smarter to just reach his arms back to pull his spine out vertebrae by vertebrae but-

His back is against the freezer.

And oh god oh god oh god that`s his lung it`s his lung and it`s there in his palm he feels the old air climb up through his throat and gurgle into the sand and

Oh fuck

Oh fuck

Oh fuck

Then it`s gone, just like that. His lung turns into ash, and it taints the cold sand and seeps into his eyes and it stings fuck it`s stings so much fuck

But then he`s alone, still. Upright and downwrong and the glass is carving at his arms now too, peeling away layers and layers of bruised and scarred skins to reveal black bone, which reeks of corpses

He opens his eyes and there is nothing

But old metal arms and plastic eyes scattered about the floor.

He closes his eyes, because he`s broke the rule of this place

Never going back again,

Never being bruised again by the glass

Isaac unravels, and he is alone there, as he stands.

* * *

He stands in snow, mixing with sand, it dips upwards to his collarbones and hugs his neck like a noose would.

He hears his own heart beat and knows he is asleep. Relaxes into the shifting mass. The branches in his spine have bloomed through his skin into large, violet flowers he knows he`s seen before. They smell like charcoal.

The dream fades to blackish grey with hands covering his mouth as he opens to say the name aloud

* * *

No dreams follow that one.


	3. In the waking world of agonies

Awareness drifts slowly, and at first only through his fingertips. Then it stops where his wrist and palm connect, doesn`t go past that point. There is some kind of rough material beneath his skin.

Then he feels his toes, and this time, just as slowly, the awareness slides upward to stop at his knees. His shoes are gone.

He tries to make words in his mouth, but it slurs and sloshes to a whimpering moan.( It sounds pained? Or agonized? Isaac isn`t sure why). He doesn`t feel anything beyond his calves and palms.

Then it spreads out across his face, but this time it burns like fever. His face feels wet. He tries to open his eyes. They`re glued shut.

Then he remembers he doesn`t feel (but he`s been aware of that for a while now, but in this very moment he realizes it as an actual state and not a fact) and thinks of how numb limbs can`t be felt but still move without effort.

He thinks he moves his hand and the shifting and sliding texture underneath it confirms he can move. But it`s kind of odd and unnerving because he doesn`t feel the movement, the way his muscles expand and contract and shift.

He tries to roll. He feels the movement with his neck and both palms and calves and he thinks he`s falling but it`s so short and he`s so disorientated and he thinks he`s on concrete now?

He tries to make another sound, and this time, though slurred, the word _help _can be made out and there`s that undertone of pain again, and Isaac still doesn`t know why.

Then concrete leaves the back of his heads and there is a faint outline of hands on the parts of his body isn`t quite aware of. Panicked voices that sound like murmuring water through glass. The concrete trembles, Isaac thinks it`s footsteps. More panicked murmurs.

Something lifts his eyelid, and there is such a bright light that Isaac`s body screws the eye shut on it`s own. He groans. They whisper.

(But then Isaac realizes it`s not whispers or murmurs at all, but rather loud and concerned voices, but he can`t hear, everything is so dull, there`s this barrier blocking sounds)

Something breathes in his ear, and he can understand the words only from so close

"It`s going to be okay, just _calm down and try to breathe_"

Isaac isn`t sure what that means. He can`t feel. Calm down from what? Is he not breathing? He can`t feel, can`t be sure. (and if he were more aware he`d be so neurotic and so clmed by this sensation of nothingness he`d faint) Something pries his eyelid open again. It doesn`t screw shut this time. His vision is too hazed and too spotted around the edges to understand what it is that he sees but he thinks he can make out a face quite close to his.

Isaac realizes the voices are talking again.

("-I mean look at his eyes, I can`t even _see_ the iris. He needs a cold compress. And cool water- we could lie him down in the shower and-")

("Are you sure it`ll help? God, is he even breathing anymore?")

Isaac`s eyelid is released and falls shut, feels heavy.

("Derek, relax. He`s just fine, if you can`t tell by the heartbeat")

("I wouldn`t exactly call this _fine_")

("But at least he woke up")

("He did?")

("Yes, he even rolled out of the couch if you didn`t notice")

At this point Isaac tries to talk again, but since he isn`t really concentrating it slurs beyond recognition again.

("I think he wants to tell you he`s awake, Derek" (it`s possible to actually hear the smirk in the voice))

("_Or_ he`s just telling you to get lost")

Isaac tries to move his hand, and then feels skin on his palm, and the stubbly contour of a jaw. Makes a noise, it sounds urgent somehow.

The next words sound a lot clearer than anything he`s heard in a while. Like the barrier has crumbled away, or at least half of it has.

"At least he can move."

It`s just so purely deadpan and he approximately pinpoints the voice to the face he`d seen, blurred, but quite close, and then suddenly he realizes it`s Peter.

"Yeah, but that doesn`t mean we should let him. Lay him back down."

The outlines of hands on his absent body shift and he leaves the concrete, and then he feels the rough textile under his palms again.

"I`ll get some cold water and a cloth", Peter mutters when he`s shifted Isaac to be more comfortable. Isaac supposes he leaves after that.

Then something touches his forehead, feels nice and cool against it, so he tries to lift his head into it. Then something pulls from his absent body into the thing touching his forehead (and it`s a palm, he realizes, a hand that has it`s fingers splaying lightly through Isaac`s hair, which feels kind of damp) but then he realizes it brings into focus he suddenly wishes it hadn't.

It(everything) starts to hurt (it had been hurting this whole time, Isaac realizes, his body had just gone into shock so he hadn`t even felt it) and he whimpers. Because now that he realizes this- this agony, it spreads throughout from the pit of his stomach up to his wrists and knees, feeling slightly less profound at the head as well, but god, what a pain and fuck he writhes on the couch and tears start to sting in his eyes and it dulls his not-too-sharp-at-the-moment mind and there is cooing close to him, shushing and lulling.

"Isaac, it`s fine, _calm down, please_"

The voice of Derek has never sounded quite so concerned. Quite so vulnerable. Isaac would`ve thought it was a dream if not for the veil of pain throughout his body. He doubts there had he ever been a dream with such a vivid ache.

Then the palm atop his head pulls more of the pain out of him. It`s such a disturbing and elevating sensation, but it doesn`t help much, because where it had been drained hollow, the outline of pain seeps back in small waves.

"Derek, stop."

Peter says in a tone voice that can`t be deciphered. The palm is replaced by a cold and wet cloth, and the difference in the temperature of his forehead and the sopping textile makes Isaac gasp. It makes him feel relieved. But then not anymore.

It grows, tumultuous and vague in in the way it is defined and detailed, and it is not long before Isaac becomes boneless and writhing and drenched in cold sweat while burning like fire, and he sobs from the intensity of it, loud broken sounds and drawn out notes of the most agonizing type of despair.

Then his body is moving on it`s own. No, being carried or half-dragged, and he is set upon such a cool, smooth surface he thinks he`s going to melt upon it. Then ice touches him. Liquid and splattering, and makes his breath hitch in his lungs. Over the roaring rumble of water he recognizes the two voices of the Hales but he can`t make out any words.

The water numbs him. The pain seems to wash away. With a huge effort, he lolls his head to the side and cracks an eye to see if there really is the physical manifestation of agony flowing into the drain. He sees swirling ice flowers on the walls. Murmurs from the tiles. He closes the eye, and all grows silent.

Isaac passes out like that, but at interventions jostles awake, gasping and shivering from the extreme temperatures, still lying down on tiles and being drowned in ice water.

He doesn`t know how long a period of time passes, but the ache fades slowly. Crawls back towards his stomach, then dissipates and leaves him feeling so drained and so tired. He can`t even move. His skin is no longer hot. He`s just trembling under the cold water. He calls out, hopes someone hears his almost-words.

He feels Derek`s legs by his head when he appears, seemingly from nowhere. The water stops. Then Derek`s voice is near, as if he`s crouching down.

"Feeling better?"

There`s unmistakeable hope in the words. Isaac makes a kind of gurgling moan of confirmation, then slurs out the word "_tired". _He can actually feel his body by this point, and it feels as if he`d been bludgeoned half to death, then left out to lie in the snow for hours.

Dareks grunts a _mhm_ and then hefts Isaac up, somewhat awkwardly, as if trying to remain dry. He doesn`t succeed, probably, because Isaac is limp against his chest. (and Isaac is completely _drenched_)

After dragging Isaac back to the couch, Derek begins to unravel the lays and articles of throughoutly soaked clothes from Isaac`s body (and the drenched boy can`t really help him because he`s just so damn _tired_ now)

As soon as Isaac`s chest and back are exposed, Peter shows up to wrap a large and rather fluffy towel around him. They replace his jeans with sweatpants, then help him up the winding staircase to the small room that had been proclaimed as Isaac`s own, and lay him down on the single bed.

One of them runs a hand though his hair lightly, and makes a shushing noise (the kind that is said unto children to help them relax) and he relaxes into the touch, and his tired bones and sinews don`t bother him as much.

Someone whispers "He`s going to have to sleep it off"

Someone shifts their weight from one leg to another.

Then both the Hales leave, though they leave their presences by the foot of the single bed. They feel comforting. The smell of pack wafts through the room as Isaac is lulled into slumber.

_(He dreams of creaking sockets and grey creatures with golden and blue and red eyes, one that sing in lament at pale white-yellow disks in the dark grey-blue skies. He dreams of the violet flowers sprouting from his back and the way his nails separate skins to find his own.)_

He dreams of nothing at all, and in the night he wakes to white light in his room (and he is too mesmerized to realize his room has no windows and no cracks for light to seep through)

There are clusters upon clusters of saturated vermillion-orange berries on the floor and hanging from walls, all of them smelling of bitter juice and dry throats, bidding him to close his eyes again.

And he does.


	4. contours of alarm

Morning comes with a throb in his left temple. He hears sharper with the left ear too, and it`s a disorientating feeling. Muscles stiff and bones leaden, he shifts to his right until plopping gracelessly out of the bed. The towel is still clinging to his shoulders, so he shrugs it off as he crawls towards his duffel, though his vision turns to spots and he loses balance completely, sprawling out on the concrete floor.

Then he regains himself. Crawls the rest of the way. He pulls out one of his loose half-sweater-half-shirts and manages to pull it over his sore skin. Leaves the sweatpants.

Tries to stand up. Falls over. Tries again, leaning heavily on the nearest wall.

(and these motions feel so feel so familiar, as if from a dream or another life, and he`s done this so many times now, so many times)

He only half staggers down the corridor, his disorganized brain not permitting to un-lean from the wall.

(He faintly realizes his temple pulses in time with the residual madness at the base of his skull and almost laughs out loud)

He stops by the staircase. Sits down and stares for a good fifteen seconds between deciding it`d be safer to crawl down, feet first. It`s kind of awkward but with how his coordination is right now it`s the best thing to do. He ceases his descent on the last step, turns to sit on it, head in his hands.

There`s someone in the tucked-away kitchen-corner. There is a smell of food and the sizzling of oil upon a pan sets Isaac`s left ear off so much he has to cover it with a cringe.

Through his peripheral vision he notices someone shift their upper body out of the kitchen-corner. He feels the stare only because he _knows_ it`s there.

Then the voice of the half-visible body drifts in as "You all right over there?" and even with a hand over his left ear the words seem too sharp in it, making Isaac wince. He mutters a "not really", though loud enough to be heard.

The person hums, then asks "Want some ibuprofen?" (and again, the sound slips right through his palm to cut into the ear. Another wince.)

Isaac just nods, tries not see patterns in his surroundings. Screws his eyes shut. The steps towards him sound too crisp.

When he opens his eyes it`s Peter that stands in front of him, in one hand a glass of water and in another two of the elongated white pills.

He takes one pill between his teeth, takes a single gulp of water with it. Repeats the action, then drinks the rest of the water, because he`s not too sure when was the last time he`d had a drink. (and even though can`t really remember last night he`s pretty sure he`d lost a lot of fluids) Then Peter takes the glass from him with one hand and with the other pulls Isaac`s arm over his shoulder to help him walk (which Isaac is fairly surprised by, and notes it to memory)

Peter sets him down on one of the chairs, then walks over to the stove, turns it off. The sizzling ceases pretty soon after that.

"I`m not sure you`d want to eat anything too big right now, so I was thinking maybe you`d be all right with muesli?"

Isaac realizes that Peter is quite right about the condition of his need to eat. Nods and notes it to memory as well. Peter is just full of surprises this morning, isn`t he?

(The throb in his temple begins to fade, his hearing evens out)

"Wonderful. Now we only have to wait for Derek to get back with milk, then."

And he takes a seat at the very opposite end of the table, watches Isaac with light-steel eyes and an imperceptible expression. Isaac is surprised that it doesn`t unnerve him, instead, watches Peter back, mirroring the posture, expression and the very atmosphere of the look.

And that makes one of the corners of Peter mouth twitch upwards, eyes flicking with silent amusement as he leans back against the chair and tilts his head lightly.

(and there is a challenge in Peter`s eyes then, one that Isaac can`t quite push himself to ignore)

Isaac mirrors the movement. The upturned corner of Peter`s mouth rises a bit higher. He stretches his arms upwards, laces his fingers and tucks both palms behind the back of his neck. And, as if this is a kind of game, so does Isaac.

And then Peter laughs. A kind of dry sound, but mirthful, and Isaac realizes he`s never heard Peter laugh before and notes it, but then he`s also chuckling.

And then they`re both laughing, loud and joyful clusters of sounds that bounce of walls and it helps so much, so much

(Isaac feels lighter, and he thinks Peter`s shoulders seem looser as well and he`s sure he`ll remember this moment for years onwards, the day he laughed at the table with the one man everyone knew not to trust)

(and he doesn`t know it but Peter will remember the moment too, except to him it`ll be how he shared a body language joke with the so-different-from-the-norm boy with sheep`s fleece for hair, and how maybe even dead people like him can laugh like everything`s okay)

They die down to chuckles when the large red-rusted metal door slides open with creaks.

When Derek walks into the kitchen-corner, Isaac can`t help but notice how his eyes seem a little sunken in. His own must have shown the surprise because Peter leans down to whispers "he was just really worried about you"

(And Derek hears that, of course, of course, but pretends he doesn`t)

Isaac feels only mildly guilty. (And he thinks back and remembers it had been his own choice to eat the mountain ash berries) He probably should feel more so, but he just doesn`t. But he knows guilt and is glad with the reprieve from it.

He wants to ask how bad it looked from the side-lines. He wants to ask how they felt about it. He wants to ask so many questions and say so many things, too many things, so he stays quiet as the two Hales shovel pancakes on plates and give Isaac some muesli and sit to eat.

They eat mostly in silence. But it feels calm, there is no real tension. They all relax into the feeling of pack. It soothes their minds, to each their own brand of despair. Their own skulls and bones in closets. Secrets and thoughts and epiphanies and guilts.

But they are bare there. Untainted.

(and the madness seeps away into the walls for the duration of this utopian reverie)

No one asks anyone anything. There is a silence and understanding and unconscious knowledge of everything they are not aware of, at the back of their minds.

No looks exchange. All of their eyes are steel and blue. So alike.

They scrub their dishes and glasses clean after breakfast. (Derek washes, Peter dries, Isaac sets them into their places)

Then, in a strange form of unison they walk out of the kitchen-corner and sit down on the couch. Stay quiet for minutes. Then Derek breaks it

"I think Deaton should check if you`re really better."

(Isaac feels good enough, but nods obediently. There are some pains that can`t be felt. He knows that.)

"Want to go now?"

That takes Isaac aback some. But he hums in affirmative. They stand up in unison. Peter doesn`t say anything. Single file and out the metal doors, they clamber down stairs with silent footfalls and odd breathing.

No words. Peter settles in the back, something he`s never done before, or at least to Isaac`s knowledge. Isaac settles his knees against the glove compartment and slides his rear to the edge of the seat, looking like he`s hiding from anyone who might be looking in, as per usual.

Some instrumental beat plays out of the speakers. No one speaks. (No one needs to)

They park, and Derek looks somewhat ruffled. Says how he has to get to the scheduled training with Boyd and Erica (how long had Isaac even been out of commission? He hasn`t looked into a single clock today).

Then Isaac understands so suddenly why Peter came along and why Derek looked so discontented. He doesn`t want to leave the two alone (Allan doesn`t count here). Isaac doesn`t really want to hang out with Peter at the vet`s (or anywhere aside from the loft) either. But there`s this stiffness that says multitudes about how this very act had been spoken of before, yesterday, through thin walls in worried tones.

He sighs as he gets out of the car. Peter doesn`t make a sound as he goes to stand next to him. (and this time the complete silence of his presence is unnerving)

"Call me when it`s done with, okay?" Are Derek`s last words through the window. He puts the stick in reverse, and the car moves. Turns. Goes. Is gone.

And it`s just Isaac and Peter, feet to the cement and backs mostly straight. The air feels vapid and sharp. There`s a kind of buzzing weaved into it. It unsettles at the stomach and grinds at the joints, creating an unbearable need to run away without looking back. He looks into Peter`s eyes and sees how he feels it too. And for a moment wishes Peter would suggest they both run from there on, into the woods, off one cliff or another, to deconstruct and be over with whatever life really is. He doesn`t.

They walk to the door, and the bell chimes as they set feet upon the laminate floor. But it isn`t just Deaton who comes through the door isle. Scott is there too.

(And finally Isaac locates a clock to see that it`s already 17.00)

Deaton understands instantly. Scott`s face shifts from surprise at Isaac to distrust at Peter. In the end he decides to flicker his eyes from one to another, confused.

And that makes Isaac laugh. It`s an entirely too loud and too shrill sound. Then he regrets it. Bows his head as everyone looks at him. He expects them to, but no one says anything.

Allan lets them through the gate. Scott steps backwards to let them shuffle through. Keeps his eyes intent on Peter. (making his spine tremble, but he shows nothing, ever)

The check-up is simple. Pulse. Vision. Nerves. Coordination. Temperature. And he manages to keep his heartbeat steady all the same (because he feels like they`re staring right through him, at the reason he really got poison). He thinks Allan hides it so much better.

Then he is proclaimed fine, but Allan asks both Peter and Scott to leave the building for a minute and not eavesdrop. They do, all the while staring at Isaac (shirtless and sitting on the operating table, legs swinging and eyes downcast) and Allan standing there, watching them leave. But where Scott is dumbfounded, Peter also looks apprehensive and aware of some situation (though only the very outline of it).

The white-wood-transparent-glass door closes and the two werewolves stand in the fresh air, and Allan leans in somewhat close to Isaac`s face and begins to whisper things.

"It`s almost done, but you`ll have to come a different time to get it."

The voice is practically going directly into his ear. He nods and something in his stomach twists in on itself.

"Can you come next Tuesday?"

Isaac nods again.

"We'll discuss some safety rules then, all right?"

Third nod.

Then Allan places his palm on Isaac`s shoulder in a gesture that is alien and meaningless to Isaac, though he doesn`t shrug it off. Just stares into his palms, how lines curve them. Allan goes to let the other two in. Isaac puts his shirt back on.

They come back in with the same expressions they had when the left, though there is a kind of animosity there now, as if they had been quarrelling outside.

Allan gives an explanation. They _seem_ to buy it.

Allan and Scott bid them farewell as Isaac and Peter walk out through the door. They take the few steps to the parking lot, then Peter looks up into Isaac`s face with a rather cold expression. His voice runs smooth like velvet

"You`re a decent actor, Isaac. Even _I_ can`t really understand what that was about, because, obviously it wasn`t about, hm, how did the good doctor put it again, _personal safety and awareness_?"

Isaac kind of wants to call Peter out on the narcissism in the words. He refrains from it. Face void, voice deadpan, he retorts with a simple.

"Well, you`re quite a good actor yourself."

Completely avoiding the question. It`s not a confirmation. (because why confirm what is already so?) Peter hums, breaks eye contact, then slides his phone out and searches through his contact list for Derek.

They stand mute until Derek arrives.


	5. Peace and Anxiety

He avoids Peter like the plague from then on. Not that it`s too hard, seeing as the man goes back to his address-less flat which, as he says, is nestled somewhere in the centre of Beacon hills. Apparently Derek had only called him over because he hadn't known how to deal with Isaac in his polluted state.

But Peter had not said anything about the untruths he had noticed, and, as grateful as Isaac was, he couldn't help but dread why exactly Peter had swallowed his tongue. And a slight voice at the back of his head says that maybe Peter just wants to get more information before leading everything to hell on a leash and Isaac doesn`t know if can stop the other.

It`s a slow building anxiety that is absent in his face and body-language. Days roll slowly between school and werewolf training and late shifts at the graveyard, which he is probably the most happy about because not only did he manage to get his job back but there are no people there in the dead of night, and that brings him peace. And space for thought. And what he most thinks about is the ever-nearing Tuesday on which he is to go to the veterinary clinic.

On Friday Derek knocks on the door to Isaac`s room and informs him that the pack`d be spending the weekend in the woods, as bonding. Scott and Stiles would be there too. The news taste nothing but bitter then, and when Derek descends the spiral of stairs, Isaac clutches at his forearms in silent anxious rage strong enough to bleed quite a lot. And even when the skin and muscles start to pull back together his claws don`t leave.

After half an hour it reeks of blood and his senses dull and he realizes the grandiosity of his self-destruction. There are no windows to air the smell out. Derek would either ask or he wouldn`t ask but just stare instead. With an expression Isaac will never find a meaning to.

So he opens the dark wooden door as far as the hinges let it. Then he opens the single, large window at the other end of the hallway. And then he sighs with frustration laced around the edges because it`s the best he can do.

Leaning out the window he wishes two things: That maybe he had a cigarette, so perhaps nicotine could soothe him(and he`d never even tried before, just hear stories), and that he would be overcome by some sort of crazed frenzy and jump out, and that his reflexes would not kick in to make his fall merciful.

But then he laughs at his own mind because he has honestly never ever felt suicidal before, and the very thought of actually doing (instead of thinking what it`s like) something life threatening and so fatally self-destructive… it just makes his spine go numb. And not just because there is no regret in him for such visions.

He decides to go to sleep early. He calls out as such from the top of the staircase and there is a grunt from Derek. That`s all Isaac gets.

He doesn`t close the door, and the faint light of a summer not-quite-sunset-yet seeps in, golden, through the empty space in the door isle. He doesn`t change into pyjamas or anything akin to them, just pulls off his jeans and plops onto the single bed, making it creak, and pulls his black and white and quite soft blanket over himself.

For a while he zones out to trace the flourish pattern upon the blanket. All around, everything seems so soft in the golden veil of vague light. Isaac can`t remember being so calm in a long, long while. And he`s relieved. So relieved.

And then he cries. because he`s weightless. Cries because what he remembers as the worst is just that, a memory. He cries and shakes and sobs quietly, and smiles while he does. Because everything seems so unnecessary, and he could be without it all. But he`s happy.

He doesn`t know how much time passes, bundled in the softness of the single bed and the by-now-vermillion light that still seems so soft.

It`s as if a rock has been rolled off his chest. As if he has wings now, and he can feel them when he closes his eyes. Weightless. Free. Unburdened.

All the things Isaac had never thought he could be.

And he thinks that maybe he will carry on. Maybe he will never even have to use the potion he would pick up on Tuesday.

But at the same time he realizes respite is temporary. And he`s alright with that.

Because now the anxiety is gone.

And tomorrow would not be the day he would lay in a grave dug by himself.

When he wakes up, the air chills his face but he is content and warm underneath the blanket. From beneath his lashes, Isaac peeks around the room. Doesn`t move. The light of morning is a pale white yellow.

He thinks this is the best morning he remembers having, at least as far as waking up goes. He nuzzles into the pillow and pulls the blanket up to his ears.

He remembers yesterday, slowly. Shifts through his own head, sometimes blinking slowly. The stench of blood has left. So has the faint smell of salty tears of relief.

Isaac feels clean.

There are people downstairs. A soft chorus of drumbeats below the floor. They just make Isaac want to go back to sleep, but he hears voices mention his name. One of the heartbeats moves to the staircase and begins to climb. Isaac shuffles into the blanket more fully.

The heartbeat pauses by the door, then comes into the room and stands by the bed in which Isaac has tangled himself up.

"I know you're awake." It`s a whisper, quiet enough for the voice to be unrecognizable. Isaac makes a half-grumble, half-humming sound, then shifts slightly to hide his face further in the bedclothes.

There`s a soft sigh from somewhere above. A pause of few seconds.

Then a palm ruffles Isaac`s hair, nails lightly raking on his scalp. It feels nice and makes Isaac smile into the fabric. He hums in appreciation.

"Just don`t sleep in too long, alright?" again, too quietly to distinguish a voice.

Then the heartbeat leaves again, down the hall and down the staircase. Isaac almost wishes he would`ve looked up to see who it was, but he has a suspicion and a muscle memory of that very same palm, so he slowly uncurls with a smile and closed eyes.

He still feels light inside. So at peace. So he move leisurely, and with his eyes only half-open. He changes his shirt and pulls on some loose tapered pants (he also curls one of his scarves around his neck, because he just wants to remember this softness) And then he saunters slowly through the white light of day and down the black metal steps.

Erica notices him first and chuckles out a "Well, good morning, sleepy head" when Isaac tries and fails to stifle a yawn. He just smiles in her direction, then walks over to where most of the people are seated by the glass coffee table, sitting on the couch and the chairs, and, in Derek`s and Boyd`s case, even on the floor.

Erica, apparently in a good mood, scoots over, slightly squishing Scott who is also seated on the couch, and pulls Isaac by the sleeves to sit beside her.

They talk about plans for the day and tomorrow, in quite civilized voices. And a sort-of argument breaks out only twice. Overall it`s a surprisingly low level of aggression for the group and Isaac manages to keep his happy peace all throughout the debate.

He`s somewhat unnerved when Peter (and it`s more of a bad joke that he is in on this) speaks up about how sincerely happy he is that everything is sorted out and how it was about time for eating, all the while staring solely through Isaac with a very calculative look. (and by some miraculous power Isaac doesn`t even narrow his eyes at the man)

They go out for breakfast. It has less to do with the fact that there are no cooking ingredients in the loft more with how making breakfast for this many hungry adolescents is a job offer at hell.

The diner is small and homey. They take up three tables in the far corner. The waiter has dark arcs beneath dull eyes, but manages to take the orders with a crooked smile. Isaac feels a bit sorry for them and tries his best to speak his order clearly and in a pleasant tone of voice. And he can`t help but feel a little self-satisfied when the waiters smile widens a bit at that.

During the actual eating, no one really does a lot of talking, except for whoever Stiles decides to chat up. And he changes who he talks to so just about everyone gets a turn. Though, somehow he manages to be the first to clean his plate, and Isaac almost feels like clapping in amazement. But he just lowers his eyes and stares into his coffee as he sips it.

After that, everyone goes back to their dwelling to get their clothes and whatever else they might need.

For a minute or two after coming into his room, Isaac stares at the duffel bag at his feet and feels so unbearably lost. The peace has faded slightly but is still there, though the nature of it has changed. He feels more like he`s come to terms with a terminal disease. It`s not helplessness but it feels too much like it for Isaac to accept it easily.

He sighs and picks up the bag. Walks in measures steps. Helps Derek with carrying everything to the car. Sits in the front seat, rear to the edge and knees up.

They don`t go to the preserve at once, instead stopping at some street Isaac doesn`t know the name of. Then Peter, also with a bag climbs into the back, and Derek turns the car around to go the preserve.

There is no music playing. The silence feels threatening almost, and Isaac can`t help but curl his shoulders inwards slightly. Suddenly though, Peter says something that lingers and bites at Isaac`s mind all the way to their destination (and he even feels Peter`s eyes on his head as he says it)

"You know, I read somewhere that insecure people always sit on the edge of seats while confident ones sit back."

And no one has to say more than that.


	6. Ghosts will try to placate you

Hey, by the way, feedback is appreciated, so yea, feel free to criticize or smth

* * *

It takes two days for the peace to disappear into a twisting mass of anxious and hateful thoughts, all directed at himself. Two days for everything to become hell. Isaac can`t help but want to laugh in mirth at how short a time it took for his resolve to crumble. Again.

He guesses he goes through these periods all the time. There is the lowest point, in which he feels like clawing himself apart because everything is just too oppressive and difficult. There is the reprieve, during which he feels as if the lowest point will never come again, and there is middle ground. Slight nervousness and anxiousness while still holding on to some hope that he still could get something in life.

This time the middle ground had been skipped. Isaac guesses he has to thank Peter for that. The man had been so persistent on putting Isaac on the tightrope, always asking questions in front of everyone and leaving knowing remarks to hang in the air. But Isaac saw what he wanted and revolted against it. The responding silent frustration had been a source of even quieter pride.

On the evening of Sunday though, Peter crosses the line. Isaac breaks his nose, (It feels good) but everyone seems to reconsider the words Peter had spouted because of it. Isaac feels stares linger on the back of his head and whispers waft through the bitter air.

But even he can`t help but mull the single sentence over again and again.

"If you`re talking _secretive bastards_, do mention the Lahey boy, I bet he has a lot more skeletons in his closet than a single abusive father figure."

(that had been hitting far below the belt and far too direct for something Isaac had thought Peter would do. But he is a unpredictable son of a bitch, so Isaac guesses he should`ve known where desperation leads)

He leaves almost immediately after. No one goes after him, which is probably for the best.

Isaac stops at a creek, slumps to sit on a rock near it. Growls in frustration, then gets up and paces about a few times before punching the nearest tree as hard as he can. It is old and thick, so it doesn`t break, but there is a sickening crunching sound from both the tree and his hand. He keens at the unexpected pain, falls to his knees and leans against the cracked trunk. (There is a jutting at the back of his palm, and it swells into a deep purple)

His eyes sting with water, but he feels better now. The bones in his hand take around seven minutes to arrange and heal. But his mind takes that much longer to bite back the violent loathing that seems to be sloshing about in his skull. His breathing sounds more like wheezing.

The sky grows dark, and shadows rest on his shoulders (they`re that much lighter than everything else) and he`s not sure how long has he been leaning against the tree. His legs are numb and the dampness of the forest floor has seeped into his skin through the jeans. The tree bark has probably left indents in his cheek that would never fade in any way except the physical one.

He hears the heartbeat before he hears the footsteps. Someone grows near with the sound of snapping branches and shifting wet leaves. They stop a good three meters away from him.

"Hey, since you`ve been gone for a while, are you alright?"

It`s Scott. Of course it`s Scott. It`s Scott because Scott knows how to placate everyone. (and that makes Isaac bitter because being placated is the thing furthest from what he wants right now, but, even so, he feels something bitter and dark leave his body and seep into the earth)

"Just thinking"

Isaac can`t see him, but he can imagine very well the expression on Scott`s face. The silent disbelief.

"Peter was being a dick, man. I mean, even if you _do_ have secrets, it`s fine as long as they don`t get someone hurt, right?"

_Even me? _"Yeah, I guess you`re right."

Then Scott walks over to Isaac`s front and holds out his palm, urging Isaac to get up from the ground. And Isaac takes it because what is he but a sheep to be led back to the heard?

Oddly enough, Scott doesn't let go of Isaac`s hand when he stands up. Instead, he squeezes it(Isaac can`t quite decipher why) and leads him back in the direction of everyone else. It`s dark, so dark now. Isaac feels the shadows flutter against him, around him. They sound like paper sheets and leaves.

The walk back is longer than expected. When they return to the small clearing a bit off from the hale house where they`d set camp, the crescent moon illuminates the needled branches of the high pines and the seemingly white leaves of pale birches. There is no wind. Scott lets go of Isaac`s palm, raises it to his shoulder. It lingers there for maybe a second or two, and the heat doesn`t even seep through Isaac`s jacket.

They stare each other in the face for a few seconds, and there`s something in Scott`s face akin to worry or curiosity or something more morbid but Isaac can`t tell what exactly. Scott sighs and goes to his tent.

Everyone else is asleep already. The drumbeat of their thrumming hearts is slow and leisurely. Their breaths whisper.

It`s so quiet and Isaac is standing in the middle of this place. He feels lost again. His feet drift over to where the vermillion coals still glow between the white ashes of the fire. He crouches and blows upon them, and they light up brighter, and the white ash flutters out of place, setting over the black ground and dark burnt carcasses of wood.

Then he sits down, and stares into the embers for what seems like forever in his mind. His rear is soaked and his hair is full of dew. The sky sweats light and the embers have long since faded to achromatic tones. There is a cold spread out through his bones and muscles when his awareness rises from it`s state of trance. His lungs hurt.

He rises from the ground silently, then walks over to the tent he is supposed to be sleeping in. Shuffles into the sleeping bag, cold, wet clothes still clinging to his frame.

Isaac closes his eyes and his awareness shuts out as a light would. He doesn`t dream.

Isaac is woken by voices. Loud and chattering. It`s mid-morning and there is a pulsating throb in his head. Probably from lack of sleep. Every part of his body is seeping cold, but at least he is not shuddering.

He squirms out of the sleeping bag and out of the tent. Almost everyone is already there, cooking breakfast. No one really pays him any mind as he slips in to sit, which he`s kind of grateful for.

They eat over light chattering.

Thankfully they start packing up after lunch, which is at about an hour past midday. Everyone packs up the tents, scouts for any residue trash scattering about, then puts it all in the cars and drives off after a brief session of half-hugs and little waves, and words of goodbye, which Isaac kind of does as minimalistically as he can.

His eyes are cold and he knows alienating people will end up bad for him, but he can`t help the urge to retreat within himself. Or lash out violently. Or both at the same time. It`s a continuous and strenuous clash.

On the way to drop Peter off, no one says a single word. Isaac notes that Peter looks ruffled in that specific 'I cannot believe the audacity of this' way. His nose is healed. (Isaac`s hands twitch to break it again)

Peter doesn`t way or say goodbye when Derek drives the car away.

When they get all their stuff up to the loft, there is an awkward moment of silence before they go separate ways: Derek to the couch and Isaac up the stairs to the room that is his, where he plops down on the bed face first and groans.

Then, because it`s hard to breathe with his face smothered in fabric, he rolls out of the single bed and onto the floor. It`s hard against his backbone and cool though his hair.

The realization registers slowly. Tomorrow is Tuesday. Tomorrow he goes to Deaton`s to get his poison. His heartbeat jumps, thrums in his throat. His mouth is dry and there is sweat collecting on his skin.

He sits up, tries to breathe slowly. It kind of helps, but not by a long shot. He wipes his palms over his brow. They`re shaking. He needs to go out. Now.

He rushes down the stairs to find Derek eyeing him with mild concern.

"I`ll just be a bit." Derek doesn`t look particularly happy with that, but nods.

The red-rusted door opens louder than any time before.

The stairway flashes past so quickly he`s outside before he even realizes it.

Isaac runs. He runs as fast as his limbs can carry him. By the dusty streets and around the sharp corners of turns and through the fresh-mown grass of yards.

He stops by the gates. It`s the graveyard, he`d run to the graveyard. The metal hinges make no sound as he opens one side of the gate. (And what is death if not silence?) It`s ominous, still. Even though he`s walked a thousand time through here, he still feels that primary fear and respect for this place.

For it holds no live. Holds no sounds except for the weeping creatures who mourn the passage and cessation on life.

Isaac feels respected here, for he is done by the dead as he does them. The stones are unmoving, but they are not unforgiving. And all the cold-rock angels weeping over the ones who took their own lives, they raise their eyes just enough to meet his.

The very air is full of an ancient decay, and it passes through bodies as tremors.

It`s one of the places Isaac feels he belongs in.

The trees have many leaves. In autumn, they will cover the rocks and the sands. And Isaac will be there to rake them away, just like last year. It`s kind of funny, though, how much and how little has changed between then and now.

He`s been pacing, yes, through the rows of gravestones, and he stops by the ones that hold his own blood. His mother, brother and father, all next to each other in a neat line. And it`s funny because he doesn`t feel a single thing looking at them. He remembers being sad about mother`s death. He remembers how lost he was when they got the envelope saying Camden had died. He remembers the grieving fear at the realization his father had died. And that`s the thing, he only remembers.

He remembers feeling the sensations, but not the sensations themselves. Each one had been shorter than the last.

But now, they`re all gone. And he doesn`t feel a damn thing. Isaac guesses that`s because he`s just that good at letting go. Just that good at falling, failing.

"Mom, dad, Cam, I`m going to hurt myself. Can you hear me? Is there something after life? Does death hurt, mom? I never really knew exactly how you died, Cam. Are you still disappointed and angry wherever you are, dad?"

And there is no answer. But the air changes. Isaac swears he feels a hand against his spine and a breath against the back of his neck. Almost like words. All the answers to his questions.

"Is pain a bad thing?" his voice breaks. The breath murmurs. Isaac doesn`t understand what it`s saying.

"Hey, is it? Is it a bad thing for someone so throughoutly fucked?"

Something that feels like fingertips pulls his eyelids down. He stands, and he feels the unreal presences stronger now. Palms smooth over his cheeks, fingers card through his hair once. There is something bitter now, in his throat.

"Are you real? Am I crazy?"

The breath is directly in his ear, but the answer it holds within itself is not of a language Isaac can comprehend.

He opens his eyes. The ghost limbs are gone.

He walks away from the graves. He paces in circles.

Then he goes back to the loft. He sees them in his dreams.


	7. they have poison, but only bathe in it

The moment Isaac wakes up he bolts downstairs to the toilet. There are heaps of writhing worms inside his stomach, and he throws up every single one, all while shaking madly. Then he lays his forehead against the cold floor and tries to breathe.

Inhale  
Exhale  
Inhale  
Exhale

Fuck

Isaac takes a guess that he`d been sick because of a nightmare or something similar, but, for the life of him, he cannot remember. Not even vaguely.(ghosts and cold hands and voices of people he`d forgotten)

There`s no one in the loft. No one for so far around. A profound lack of pulsating hearts. No moving air. Stale smells cling to the oxygen. It`s almost the same as the graveyard, and for a moment of eclipsing thoughts Isaac fears he never left and that he had imagined the spectres which petted his skin. That he was actually somewhere in the wild air, dreaming up delusions.

But no, the clock is ticking. That`s real. It has to be. Has to be right there, mounted upon the wall, all metal gears and moving hands and twitching quartz.

Isaac breathes.

It`s Tuesday. He smashes his head against the table, the throbbing dull pain keeps away the panic. He guesses, though, that he`d gone a bit too hard because he feels red blood flow down his face, from his nose. When he wipes at it with the back of his palm, the cinnabar liquid makes him freeze in mesmerisation.

It drips onto his shirt and feels hot against his skin. Werewolves really do have warmer blood.

The blood has dried. He`ll never get it out of his shirt, probably. Isaac doesn`t really have a problem with that.

He rises from the table. (he hasn`t eaten anything today, but he probably wouldn`t be able to stomach food right now).

All he takes with him is his phone, keys and wallet and then he sets foot outside of the building. There are looming clouds blocking the sun. He smells a thunderstorm gurgling at the edges of horizon. Wind rips at his clothes as it passes. He looks down at his blood-stained shirt.

He`d forgotten to wash it off of his face, too. He guesses it`ll start pouring soon enough for it to wash away with the splattering water.

Isaac has walked half of the way to the veterinarian's when the water hits and the first flash of white light burns in his retinas. The blood-curdling drums of thunder echo only ten seconds behind. But it`ll get closer. It always does, unless it passes just by the side. And this storm is going straight through the heart of Beacon Hills.

The rain becomes stronger quickly. The water is cold and his clothes are wet, and the streets are flooding with the cacophony of blaring water, drums and flashes of obscene light. It`s hard to see in front of oneself. But Isaac manages, though the storm takes his senses away.

When he reaches at parking lot, his bones are soaked through. His hands slip and fumble with the metallic doorknob of the white-wood-transparent-glass doors. He doesn`t have the will to curse.

It feels odd to hear the bell chime. Odd to close the door, leaving the storm outside. It`s so quiet here. So lifeless. The light isn`t even turned on in this room, though it walks through the doorway of the cabinet. Allan walks through with it, the crease in his brow evening when he recognizes Isaac.

(the heart-wrenching nervousness is back and for a moment Isaac considers running back out there, but his feet have grown roots into the tiles of the floor)

"All right then, let us get to business, right?" Isaac nods. Follows Allan.

The room feels colder than it ever has. There is the sound of water thrashing against the fight windows and the streets and roof. The low drumbeat is steady, almost symbolical and ritualistic. There is a blue-ish glass bottle, full to the neck with a dark twisting, violet liquid.

It makes Isaac`s hackles raise, it reeks of death and rot.

"Do you really want it?" Allan says, and through peripheral vision Isaac sees him staring directly at his face. His throat has gone dry.

And he doesn`t feel a burning urge for it now, doesn`t need pain this exact moment, but he knows a time will come. So he nods. Allan doesn`t look convinced, but understands anyway.

He begins to explain, using fluid gestures and talking slowly and clearly.

How to dilute the poison. (three fifths water, one fifth white spirit, one fifth the poison itself)

The aftermath of using it when not diluted. (Allan says it would fuck up his digestive system completely first, then corrode blood flow, which would, in turn, corrode all else)

How Isaac shouldn`t use it when there are news of strange packs and/or creatures, lest it complicate fights or the similar. (wounds from alphas that don`t heal, bleeding out, long lasting heavy damage that could have permanent traces)

The way other werewolves will smell it unless the scent is masked. (stand in the wind for long enough or wash it off)

How Isaac needs to be extremely careful with wounds when under it`s effects, seeing as lycanthropes have degraded senses of what`s life-threatening and what`s not. (never joke around with injuries, however light you think they are)

The instruction is roughly two hours long. All details, all making sure Isaac understands all scenarios. And through the entire length of it, Isaac unwinds from his neurotic heights. He nods, asks questions and listens to answers and all else.

When the talking is done, Allan walks over to the table and picks up the bottle. He swirls it in his hands for a bit, showing it to Isaac fully. Then he removes the cap. The smell which bursts forth immediately is sickening, even to Allan, apparently. It`s like having your face shoved into a rotting corpse and being forced to breathe it.

Isaac gags. Allan puts the cap back on.

The glass of it gleams in the cat-eyed lighting of the room. Allan`s arm doesn`t. It`s almost more of a joke now, dark paper skins suckling at the light and poison liquids in glass. The storm seems enraged by this.

(There is hysteric laughter bubbling in Isaac`s throat. He tries not to succumb to it because it would disengage Allan from this foredoomed transaction.)

The second the bottle is in Isaac`s hand, he almost drops it. (he will swear to any god but never say out loud that it burned his palm deep enough to scar bones. He knows then, that he is forever sullied.)

"Thank you for doing this."

"What I do is nothing to thank for, Isaac."

Allan`s eyes are full of despair and good will. Isaac can`t bring himself to meet them.

It`s the most anticlimactic thing ever, the way they bid their farewells. Allan tells him to stay safe and the boy responds to it only by assuring he will and mumbling goodbye.

It doesn`t really matter just how much his clothes had dried off in the time spent at Deaton`s clinic. The very moment he steps through the white-wood-transparent-glass door the rain strikes hard at him. The sound is overwhelming. It feels more like diving than anything, really, except his eyes are open and he is not weightless.

And then he stops, because he cannot go to Derek`s loft with the bottle. He can`t go near anyone he knows with it, actually. Or at least the werewolves. They`d smell it. They`d know.

A lie that ends before it`s beginning. Strangely poetic. And not the best gait of events.

Isaac needs to find neutral ground.

First to mind comes the cemetery, of course, of course. But, there is another groundskeeper there, who would find the bottle, no doubt. There is not a single place in the cemetery that would be a good enough hiding spot. No holes, no crooks, no well-placed branches, nothing. Isaac has searched throughout many a times.

No other place outdoors would be safe, the wind carries scents. The city buzzes with more life than Isaac can trust.

And then he feels sick to the stomach because he knows the perfect place. His home. It`s been empty so long now. No one would go there. No one would expect _him _to go there. It`s perfect.

He changes his walking course. The storm lightens. Isaac doesn`t.

His house is intimidating bricks stacked together, laced with police ribbons and rounded by shrubby dead plants. The dead tree by the doors leans heavily towards them, either blocking or wanting to enter. The concrete blocks are cracked.

The whole place reeks like chemicals, like a morgue. Except it does not rot. It stands against the heavy lead clouds, wayward.

Isaac is surprised to find his stomach not contracting, turning. He is nervous, sure, but it`s more of a morbid excitement. He is back.

The door doesn`t creek ominously. The air is not unmoving, he can hear a draft. Some windows broken. He paces through the rooms slowly, loping strides and all-seeing eyes. It feels different, and that un-eases him.

There`s a knife on the kitchen floor. Maybe someone had been here. Isaac finds the broken windows too. It`s the ones which face the street. He also finds the rocks which had been thrown to break them. Shakes his head and thinks how common and diverse destruction is.

'_everybody is doing it'_

As if those words ever change anything.

He walks to the attic, the ceiling of which is lower than his height so he has to bend to fit. It smelled of dust when he was human, but now the scent is so overwhelming it makes Isaac dizzy. Dust and dirt.

There`s an old leather couch there, it`s red. He sits in it. He thinks. He looks over the bottle of poison in his hands, attempts to learn every bump and crease of glass, the movement patterns of liquid death.

"This is it, the temple of prayers to afterlife." Isaac says out loud into the stale air, because he notices corpses here. The thin skulls of mice and birds which had flown in through cracks in the walls.

It`s a strange moment of poetism. Strange because Isaac is no poet. Poetic because why the fuck not?

He sets the bottle on the floor besides the couch, gets up and dusts himself off. The way downwards the step-ladder is longer than up. But this time, Isaac has nothing to weigh him down.

Large, quick steps to the door. And then he stops. He wants to see again. If the fear lingers. The base of his skull pulsates. He remembers the feeling.

Isaac needs to go to the basement.

People overestimate the power ghosts hold over the living. The ones who know how to observe, at least.

Even so, Isaac, the scared boy at the bottom of the stairs to the basement, feels his organs constrict with pure terror.

His hand shakes when he tries to flick the lights on. The electricity is out.

But thanks to werewolves, he can still see. (even if what he sees are visions and memories of pure terror mixed with the grey reality of right now)

The freezer is bent, swollen at the sides, the chain that seems to have been tied around it – broken, stray bent segments scattered over the floor. The lid had been pried off it`s hinges.

He can see his own scratch-marks and one which are not his at all. (except through a sick sense of empathy)

Something had been locked in there. Isaac wonders if they were as terrified as he had been.

He puts his palm to it and it is cold like all metal. Dead like all memories and twisted just like Isaac himself.

To liken oneself to their cage. Only the un-free can do that.

He storms out of the house, practically runs. The storm has passed but everything smells like rainwater.

He goes to Derek`s loft, doesn`t bother noticing if anyone is there and slumps in his bed limp.

The rest of the day is spent thinking about fantastic scenarios and mind-plaguing questions of social interaction.


End file.
